Quietly, Dear Elf
by Black Lothlorien
Summary: After WR, in the "Attacks On Mirkwood" Universe. Aragron, Arwen, Legolas, and Gimli are captured by orcs by Saruman's supposed son. When the orcs want to torture Arwen, Legoals steps in. But will he survive?
1. Chapter One

Legolas leaned quietly against the wall of their cell. It was dry, black, and musty in here, and it had not gotten any warmer since they were brought to this place.  
  
He looked over at his friends. Gimli was sitting in the corner, Aragorn laid on one of the stone slabs that served as beds, and Arwen sat on the slab beside him, looking just as beautiful as she did when the were taken.  
  
It had been a cool, clear night, and all were celebrating the anniversary of the defeat of Sauron at Aragon's home. The gardens had called Legolas from the gathering, which had become somewhat of a bore. He was not used to such 'parties,' but he felt that it was his obligation to come.  
  
Gimli had soon joined him in the garden after fleeing the many people. They spoke of many things until Aragorn and Arwen approached them, they, too, seeking refuge from the many partygoers.  
  
That was when they were attacked.  
  
Legolas, in his moss green silk tunic, gray dress pants, and dark brown dress boots, had only a hidden boot-dagger to use in defense. Gimli had his strength, and Aragorn his prowess. Arwen fought bravely against the stinking, malignant attackers, but, in the end, they were all taken.  
  
Their captors were orcs, for there was no mistaking the foul smell. And, being elves, Arwen and Legolas naturally received the more brutal end of their handling. Twice Legolas had been forced to step in the way of a slap or blow aimed for her, for Aragorn and Gimli were held far from them.  
  
Then blindfolds had been tied roughly around their eyes. Instead of allowing them to feel the ground beneath their feet, or remember which way their trails led them, the four captives had been thrown onto the back of a hay filled wagon.  
  
After a while, when Legolas had tried to raise an alarm among a band of closely passing riders, a dirty rag was shoved into his mouth, nearly choking him. Once he and Arwen had been thrown, still bound, into this cell, Gimli and Aragorn, who were already there, were kind enough to free them.  
  
Arwen had unfortunately received the hardest treatment of them all. Her arms and back hurt terribly, from blows that Legolas could not block.  
  
The orcs had laughed at him when he tried to protect her, his own hands bound tightly behind him.  
  
Now, they waited in this cell, alone.  
  
There was total silence. The air in this place was heavy, stifling, so that each breath and each word was a chore to utter. Aragorn sat up from his quiet rest and moved beside his wife, holding her tightly in his arms.  
  
Gimli looked at Legolas from across the room, but the elf did not notice. The dwarf had wanted to speak with him for the longest time, but he dared not approach him.  
  
"They come," Aragorn stood suddenly and turned to the door. He placed himself between it and Arwen as it creaked open slowly. When the smallest crack of light streamed through, Legolas threw himself forward and knocked the cell door open.  
  
Gimli dashed out after him, and Aragorn paused only long enough to grab Arwen's hand. They pushed their way through two very surprised orkish guards, and ran down the halls.  
  
Black stone lined the corridors around them, and the only light they saw were the small torches set every so often. Legolas stepped out quickly into a crossing hall and immediately leapt back, for a large group of orcs was marching towards them.  
  
They saw his foot disappear back into the hall and immediately raised the alarm. Aragorn led them through a maze of corridors, eventually coming to a crossroads. On the wall hung an old, rusty sword and a black stone dagger.  
  
He tossed the dagger to Legolas. Gimli had already ripped the leg off an old bench and was brandishing it dangerously. Arwen tried to translate the small writings on either side of the doors before the group of orcs reached them.  
  
She was too late.  
  
Legolas was the first to fall. A large club pinned him tightly to the floor.  
  
Aragorn lost sight of the elf as he slashed and hacked at the orcs, trying to give Arwen enough time to translate the writings.  
  
"This way!" Her voice was like water to a thirsty man. It had been so long since he had heard her…  
  
Gimli was reluctant to leave Legolas behind, but he had no choice when their attackers leapt forward. Aragorn followed Arwen closely, turning every few seconds to make sure that the dwarf was following.  
  
The hall was a dead end.  
  
"No, this cannot be!" She cried, feeling the wall for any sign of a door.  
  
"Arwen, stay back!" Aragorn commanded, "Gimli!"  
  
The dwarf howled loudly and rushed the horde, swinging left and right with his makeshift club and fists.  
  
The first impact with an orkish sword shattered the blade in Aragorn's hand. The shards cut his hands, but that pain was nothing compared to the explosion in his head when metal wreathed fists smashed down on his neck.  
  
"Take them back to their cells," The commander snarled, "No, not the elves. We shall play a little before we release them…"  
  
The orkish laughter haunted his mind as oblivion overtook him.  
  
"Aragorn, please awaken, please…"  
  
It was Arwen's voice, and she sounded on the verge of tears. Slowly, Aragorn managed to open his eyes, though the tiny amount of light in their cell stabbed to the very back of his brain.  
  
"Arwen, you're all right…" He whispered as he saw his beloved's face above him, unscathed. Her tears haunted him to the core, "What—what did they do to you?"  
  
"It was Legolas," Her tears flowed freely as he sat up, head pounding angrily.  
  
"What about him?"  
  
"They took him to the depths of this place," Gimli grumbled loudly from his side of the stifling cell, "They took us all to a dungeon keep, a large room where their implements of torture reside. They were going to rack the Lady Arwen."  
  
"But Legolas jumped between the guards and me," Arwen held Aragorn's hand in hers, "He dared them to take him, not I, for…"  
  
She stopped, "He said that I was no immortal, that I was more human than he. They care not for me now. They took Legolas instead…"  
  
Aragorn saw the deadly truth in his wife's eyes.  
  
"Is he alive?"  
  
"I know not," She whispered, more tears dripping down her cheeks, "The last thing I heard before we were dragged away was the crack of whips. They were beating him, Aragorn…"  
  
"We just recovered him, and now he is to be taken from us again," Aragorn clasped Arwen's hands tightly in his, "He hasn't even healed totally from the attack on him in Mirkwood. I fear for his life, and I blame myself, for it was my jealousy that drove him to injury first."  
  
Silence fell once again over the cells as Aragorn consoled his wife. Hours past, and still there was no word of the elf, or of their captors.  
  
Many hours passed…  
  
The door creaked slowly open. The king of Godor sat up quickly as a tall figure appeared in the light.  
  
"So, I have truly caught four flies in my web, and what important flies they are," A sadistic voice filtered through the cell, "You are my prisoners, King of Gondor, Queen of Gondor, and Lord of the Glittering Caves."  
  
"Who are you and where is the fourth?" Gimli demanded angrily.  
  
"I am one called Syphon, son of Saruman and Iona," Aragorn's eyes began to adjust to the light. The figure that taunted them had long, straight black hair, and wore black robes, "I have taken my father's place as the Lord of Orthanc."  
  
"But the tower of Orthanc was demolished," Aragorn insisted.  
  
"I have rebuilt it by the power of my staff, the same that my father bore when he was killed," Syphon's eyes blazed in anger, "And I will make you pay for what you did. You, that dwarf, and the elf I now hold in my torture room."  
  
"What have you done to Legolas?" Arwen cried.  
  
"Shall I show you what I did?" With a laugh of pure evil, the white globe crystal in the head of the staff flashed brightly, casting a beam into each person's eyes, blinding them.  
  
"This is what I did," In the back of their minds, they heard the crack of whips, saw the spray of blood, as the orcs laughed, delighted with their sport. When the whips were exhausted, daggers and hot pokers came into play.  
  
"No!" Arwen's cry broke Aragorn's heart, and the spell that held them in horrified attention shattered as well.  
  
"He shall be returned to you, once he learns that sacrificing his life for another is pure foolishness," Syphon chuckled evilly, "And I have a few more toys that I have yet to use."  
  
"You cannot torture him further! He will die!" Aragorn leapt to his feet, "Have you no heart?"  
  
"No, I do not," He laughed again and the cell door slammed shut.  
  
When the food came a few hours later, Aragorn dove forward just in time to keep the thick door from latching totally. The muted unsnapping of the locks rewarded him.  
  
"When all hope is lost," Arwen whispered, "We must go, and we shall not leave Legolas behind this time."  
  
"Aye, and I shall have first go at the necks of the orcs who tortured him," Gimli knew well what had happened to Legolas at the hands of a few remaining orcs in Mirkwood when the bounty of gold lay on his head.  
  
But before they could move, the door opened once again. It slammed shut tightly after a pitiable looking form was thrown inside.  
  
"Legolas!" Gimli was the first to the elf's side. He was unconscious, thankfully, for the wounds in his body were not mere superficial cuts. Aragorn could hear the labored breathing of the elf as he lay on the cell floor, his limbs curled in like a child sleeping.  
  
"The wounds have stopped bleeding, else they have been burned shut," Aragorn winced at his own words. His healing hands touched the swift slice across the elf's cheeks that had already begun to disappear, "He will live, if there is no internal injuries."  
  
It was then that Aragorn noticed the damage that the brutal slice had done. The elf's ear was fine, but his hair was cut close to his head. He looked like a young child, a very young child, as the now-free strands of hair covered his ears.  
  
"We must escape soon," Gimli grumbled, then sat back, "I have seen injuries such as this before. He will not survive an escape attempt."  
  
"And how do you know this?" Aragorn demanded.  
  
"His arms and legs have been stretched too far. He will be unable to stand, much less run and escape," The dwarf scowled, "His wrists and ankles are broken as well. Being an elf, he will recover fully from these wounds, but not before that Syphon man kills us all."  
  
"We cannot leave him behind," Aragorn insisted. Arwen knelt beside her husband, her eyes red.  
  
"They will kill him or we will," Gimli growled  
  
"Well, we cannot leave him lay on the cold floor," Arwen said, wiping the tears from her eyes. She guided the elf's body as Aragorn and Gimli lifted him onto his slab of stone, "Though I fear that this may not be much better."  
  
Hours passed, again, in silence. Arwen tended to the still unconscious Legolas, and looked over at her husband every few minutes as he sat, waiting, by the door. This time, he would not fail. They would escape, or they would die trying.  
  
There was no middle ground.  
  
Four days later, their chance came.  
  
Aragorn stood on the hill outside the walls of Orthanc, watching the tower blaze. The fire itself was a mistake, but helpful, for it had been seen by a passing battalion from Gondor. Now, as the soldiers tended to his, Arwen's, and Gimli's wounds, a small group of fleet-footed Elven scouts from Mirkwood searched for Legolas.  
  
A thunderous groan ignited the night. Aragorn watched in horror as the rebuilt tower slowly crumbled to the ground, its burning stones cracking and shattering under the heat and weight.  
  
"My lord! The scouts return!" A soldier cried out, pointing.  
  
"And we bear our lord with us," The leader of the scouts said solemnly.  
  
Legolas laid on the stretcher, utterly silent, his face far paler than his usual tone. The cuts and burns on his body had all but disappeared, and his limbs straight. Only his hair reminded them of the tortures he had endured on the lady Arwen's behalf.  
  
"Will you bear him to Gondor? For there, I will see to it that he receives the best care," Arwen entreated the leader, who bowed to one knee before her.  
  
"Milady, we will bring him to Minas Tirith, for his father wishes it so," He stood, "King Thranduil trusts the King Elessar with his son's life. That in itself is a sign of great friendship. And in that, I would put my service."  
  
"Thank you, my friends," Aragorn smiled sadly, "We go now, for Syphon's orcs still roam this area."  
  
"You all shall rest in the wagon," The commander of the army said, his older face wrinkled and wise, "For you have suffered much turmoil, and I would not suffer you to ride, my King."  
  
"Thank you," Aragorn first entered the enclosed wagon, then guided Legolas' stretcher onto a bed therein. He then helped Arwen inside, and pulled Gimli in as well.  
  
They all sat on the blanket-covered benches on either side of the small room. Arwen sat on the floor, having discovered a canteen and small pile of towels under the bench. She soaked one towel and laid it on Legolas' forehead.  
  
"Here, dearest one, let me," Aragorn took the cloth from her hands, "You must rest. This has been a hard ordeal for you as well."  
  
She smiled gently, "I will rest then, for I know that we ride home."  
  
The wagon hit a rut then. Arwen shook her head at the jostle and moved into the back, where the bench was open. As she lay down, Aragorn looked over at Gimli, who was nursing an injured shoulder, received when he had broken through a thick door, allowing their escape.  
  
The king of Gondor was just as startled as he when the cold cloth that had been lying on Legolas' forehead hit him in the face.  
  
"I have no need for things such as that," Legolas groaned painfully, "What has happened? Where are we? Are we still prisoners?"  
  
"Quietly, dear elf," Aragorn laughed softly, "Arwen sleeps and you were close to becoming face to face with the Doors to the Halls of Mandos. You were burned, cut, broken. You need rest more than any of us."  
  
The elf sighed, "What else could I have done, Aragorn? The Lady Arwen could have been killed."  
  
"Aye, this we both know," He smiled, "Now she owes her life to you twice- over."  
  
"She owes me nothing," Legolas sighed and looked at the ceiling, "Why do I lay when I should be sitting? My wounds pain me not to that extent."  
  
Aragorn could do nothing to restrain the elf as he sat up and moved his limbs experimentally. The only hiss of pain that he uttered was when he attempted to twist his neck too far to the right.  
  
"You are amazing," Gimli grumbled, "First, there is a bounty on your head, from which you hide in the depths of Mirkwood for seven years to avoid. Then you are attacked by orcs and nearly killed. After that, you tell us, that you were killed at Helm's Deep and became a Shade. And you live because Time reversed and changed."  
  
Gimli sighed and straightened his rumpled dress tunic, his eyes sparkling in jest, "Now, you are tortured by Saruman's son. When will you learn that being friends to this human will get you killed? You, as an elf, should have figured that out during the War of the Ring."  
  
Legolas laughed, "Gimli, perhaps a lesson you should have learned was that I am friends with whom I wish. And, to more, injury to me scathes no one, for I heal quickly, and survive. Others may be scarred or killed."  
  
"You are both full of hot air!" Aragorn shook his head, "Now sleep! Rest is essential!"  
  
He shushed them whenever they tried to speak, thus sending them to do nothing but lie down and sleep. Aragorn himself stayed awake longer, for he sat at Arwen's side, brushing her hair with his fingers. She was so precious to him…  
  
He sighed in relief and leaned against her bench, his head near hers. He would not leave her side ever again. He only worried that Syphon had been able to escape.  
  
They stopped for the night at the border of Gondor. Once there, the Elven scouts from Mirkwood said their goodbyes and disappeared, leaving for home and bearing good news for the Elf-King of their forest refuge.  
  
Aragorn walked a short ways from the camp, breathing in the wondrous night air. The stars shone brightly above him, comforting him.  
  
He suddenly remembered the dagger that he had found embedded in the wall as they escaped. It was made from a strange white stone that glowed yellow whenever it was handled in battle. This Aragorn knew, for it had been his weapon of defense.  
  
And it was glowing yellow.  
  
A fist hit him from behind. He spun and came face to face with the deranged Syphon, who held the shattered staff of his father's creation. The top half was gone, lost in the fire, most likely.  
  
"You! You did this!" He cried angrily, "I will kill you for all this! You kill my father, and now, I will make you kill me as well!"  
  
Aragorn had no choice but the cut forward as the wizard's son lunged.  
  
"No my son will hunt you down and kill you," Syphon slumped against him, grinning maliciously. The white dagger protruded from his chest.  
  
The king of Gondor held him on his feet, "Why?"  
  
"The blood of two generations is on your hands, Elessar, King of Gondor," The evil one laughed, "Once three has completed its count, innumerable horrors will befall all those you hold dear. But not you, never you."  
  
"What are you talking about!" Aragorn demanded, holding him up by his collar.  
  
"If death comes to my son by your hand," Syphon pointed at the wagon that Legolas, Arwen, and Gimli now rested, "Your wife will be stricken with an incurable sickness, your elf friend will die by the arrow and sword, and the dwarf will fall, buried under his own beloved stone."  
  
"And I will watch them die, is that it?" The King of Gondor refused to let this man die, "Who is your son? I will never harm him. Tell me who he is!"  
  
"No," Syphon died.  
  
With a cry of rage, Aragorn dropped the man and fell to his knees. His friends ran to him, and the commander of the army knelt beside him, "My King, what happened?"  
  
"I have the blood of two generations on my hands," Aragorn clenched his fists in anger. He looked up at Arwen. He could not bear to loose her, but how would he prevent the killing of a man he did not even know? He had to defend himself, but what about her?  
  
"Rest, my king," Arwen laid her hands on his forehead, "For you have been through much turmoil and ache."  
  
A wash of blissful sleep ran through his body, pulling him into the realm of dreams. But his mind screamed wildly. How will I protect you! How can I protect those that I care about the most? But he had already fallen into the sleep of utter fatigue.  
  
And even from beyond the grave, Saruman laughed. 


	2. Chapter Two

How the Curse of Saruman came to be…  
  
1 Long, long ago, in the Second Age, in the midst of a terrible battle, a woman elf bent over the body of her brother.  
  
I will not become angry. I must pity these orcs, for they know not that we are of the same descent…but they do not deserve my pity! Her mind was a whirlwind of feelings and contradictions.  
  
She rose to her feet in the middle of a large circle of slain orcs, humans, and a few elves. Her brother's body slipped gently to the ground, his blood smearing her leg and body armor.  
  
A group of several orcs looked at her, mockingly, taunting her.  
  
"Mitharwen! No! Do not give in to hate!" The voice of a fellow elf echoed across the battlefield, but she did not hear his words. Another voice joined the first. This time, it was her commanding officer…  
  
"Return here! You cannot fight them alone!"  
  
"I can and I will, else I join my brother sooner than later," She whispered to herself as she unsheathed the sword from her back.  
  
"Stand down…!"  
  
The orcs attacked her.  
  
She screamed in rage, her features twisting into an expression of pure, fueled anger and heart-wrenching sadness. Her sword flashed in the sickly light, hewing flesh and ending the wretched lives of the orcs.  
  
Once the last one had fallen, she stood, panting for breath, her anger still hot.  
  
Before her, a black figure stepped from the smoke and ruin. His spiked helmet, plated armor, cruel mace, and thick golden Ring identified him at Sauron, Master of Mordor and sworn enemy of her people.  
  
Instead of backing away, she dove at him, her sword glittering. His hands shot up. One caught her wrist, stopping her sword blow from being felled, and the other clamped down hard on her throat.  
  
"You puny creature," He hissed, his breath malignant.  
  
She struggled in his grip, her eyes shining angrily.  
  
"You are no warrior," His grip on her wrist tightened and he twisted. In a spasm of pain, her hand opened, dropping her blade to the ground, "You should be, but you are not."  
  
The Elven woman grimaced against the agony in her wrist, though his armor on his hand pinched her throat painfully, "What do you know, demon?" She spat in his face.  
  
His crushing grip became tighter, "Your hands bear the marks of a standard- bearer."  
  
Her eyes widened. How could he have known…?  
  
"No matter. I can still kill the demons of the ancient world."  
  
Suddenly, her eyes flew open wide in agony. Her free hand flew to her stomach, where a crossbow bolt was embedded in her armor and her body. The fiery pain spread through her body like liquid in her blood.  
  
"I have foreseen my destruction," He hissed gloatingly in her ear, "You…you will be my vessel, bearing my standard."  
  
She spit into his face again, "Curse you!"  
  
"You are mine now…"  
  
He released her throat and plunged his fist towards her stomach…  
  
Her mouth opened wide in surprise. She could feel his hand inside her…  
  
Oh, Elenath! Her mind cried in anguish. Her head snapped back as the torture grew worse with the evil, armored hand searching inside her. He voice was weak as she cried, "Help me…"  
  
The light in her eyes began to fade as a stream of blood flowed freely from her lips. Her tightly rigid hand loosened and fell limp.  
  
When the lord of Mordor pulled his hand from her and released her wrist, her body fell to the ground. She breathed shallowly, though she saw nothing, felt nothing… The demon reached down to the gaping wound in her stomach and slowly healed it.  
  
A barrage of Elven arrows fell around him, making him stand and fall back into the smoke and shadows.  
  
The Elven woman bucked as she began to breathe deeply, gasping for air. Her body seized as she fell to her side and curled up, trying to fight the pain that still burned throughout her body.  
  
Someone…a friend…knelt beside her, his face a blur of pale skin and blonde hair. He was saying something…words she could not comprehend for the fog in her mind.  
  
She began to see shadows that could not exist…darkness in the humans and orcs around her…but the elves were a blinding pure light, so bright that she cried out in burning pain as her eyes joined the rest of her body in agony.  
  
Her own hand glowed, but it was a pitiful light. Her body held no purity, for she was a shell now. Even as she lay in the throes of pain, the slow, creeping advances of mortal age began to touch her…then it stopped…  
  
The woman squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out as much of the tearing light as she could. She could not stand the light…  
  
Strength began to seep into her, from the wound in her stomach, but it was not a pure, Elven strength. The power was blackness, one she could not battle. Even as she began to still from her wounds, the wounds she held healed…  
  
She heard a cry of alarm…  
  
She opened her eyes, narrowing them against the brightness that faded slowly. She saw normally now, even as more and more strength filled her...  
  
"Mitharwen, what has happened to you…?" Her friend touched her cheek gently. The Elven woman's eyes searched the world around her, and found that she was inside a tent, lying on a cot.  
  
How she came to be there, she did not know.  
  
"We won, Mitharwen, the Free People of Middle-Earth are truly free now," He caressed her cheek again, gently, kindly, "Sauron is dead…"  
  
"Not dead, only weakened," Her voice was no longer her own, but that of the evil that she had sworn to purge from the very face of Middle-Earth. Her eyes suddenly flared red as a heat rose in her chest, near her back.  
  
Her friend stood in alarm, but the Elven woman snatched his wrist and jerked him down to face her. Sauron's magic flowed through her blood and she snarled, feral teeth growing in her mouth.  
  
His face was so close…she could smell his fear…see his blood pulsing…  
  
With a growl of delight, she roughly grabbed his shoulder and head, then brutally bit down on his neck. He cried out in pain as her teeth sank into the flesh of his throat, but he could not free himself.  
  
The being that had been Mitharwen pulled away and allowed a limp body to fall hollowly to the floor.  
  
"Now all I have to do is wait."  
  
Saruman approached the black-skinned woman, who had formerly been an elf. She had great power, and the spirit of Sauron dwelt, however weakly, inside her.  
  
"You are the one known as the Weeping Woman," He said finally, after meeting the creature's gaze, her intriguing yellow eyes watching his every move, "True?"  
  
"I am she," The woman crossed her arms.  
  
"I need a woman to help me," Saruman's face was touched by an evil smile, "I have a plan that will ensure the death and destruction of Middle-Earth, leaving it ripe for the return of Sauron."  
  
A flash of red welled in the woman's eyes.  
  
"Tell me more."  
  
Saruman outlined his devious scheme, and the woman laughed, her voice matching that of the Lord of Darkness. She readily agreed to the plot. Or rather, Sauron did, his voice booming mightily from the Palantir.  
  
"This vessel has kept the seed of my evil alive for many, many generations," Sauron boomed, his voice penetrating, "You, Saruman, may use this small piece to destroy Middle-Earth, for I can give no part of myself now."  
  
"Then I will bear the destruction of all the Free People," The Weeping Woman laughed again, "This will be a great time for my lord and I. Come, destruction, let us dance!"  
  
Three laughs mingled evilly in the halls of Orthanc.  
  
1.1 How the Curse of Saruman came to pass…  
  
About three years later, a human king sat on his throne, considered his fate.  
  
A curse had just been placed on him by the magical son of a great enemy, a curse that would ensure the horrible deaths of all that he held dear. But he would not be touched by it until all he beheld was ruin.  
  
All he had to do to awaken this curse was to kill the third generation, the son of the man who had placed this burden on him.  
  
Little did he know, that while he sat thinking, two eyes watched him closely.  
  
The watcher, still healing from injuries suffered in brutal captivity, held his injured arm close to his body, a concerned expression on his face. It was not his injuries that worried him, though they were life-threatening only a few days ago…  
  
No, he had suffered those injuries while protecting the life of the queen, the Lady Arwen. The man he watched was King Elessar, known to old friends as Aragorn or Strider.  
  
The watcher's eyes narrowed as he shook his head. Aragorn would be devastated, for the news the watcher carried was the doom of all held dear…  
  
"Legolas," The king finally spoke, "You may come. I am sorry for not noticing you sooner…"  
  
"I could wait a hundred years," The watcher responded honestly as he stepped forward from the shadows.  
  
"How are your injuries?"  
  
"Healing quickly, though broken bones mesh slower than torn flesh and muscle," The elf smiled only slightly, "I can ride now, but I cannot shoot my bow, nor hold my knives or sword. All I can do is sit."  
  
Aragorn laughed, actually a real, amused sound, "And that, prince, must be that hardest part of healing! I know the pain of waiting long for injuries to heal. But in Rivendell, there is no tarry to become whole again. Perhaps you should go there for healing, at the hands of Elrond himself."  
  
"I will not leave your side, for there is much to be feared in Minas Tirith," Legolas sighed, "You must search for one that can break this curse that holds a cloud of despair over your head."  
  
"I have sent word by riders for Gandalf," Aragorn leaned back, not afraid to show his fatigue to an old friend, "If he cannot help me, I can go nowhere else. Galadriel's power wanes sadly, and Elrond, I fear, will leave these shores soon."  
  
Legolas' eyes dimmed sadly, "Aye, the time of my people vanishes, even as I myself watch. But I will not leave, for there is much to do in the years to come."  
  
"Sadness does not become you, son of Thranduil," Aragorn smiled slightly, then his face grew grim.  
  
There was a silence.  
  
"What is it you came to see me about?"  
  
Legolas' eyes narrowed and his face took on a look of pure defeat and sorrow, "I carry the news of hell and death, my lord."  
  
Aragorn went pale.  
  
"A body of a seventeen year old boy was found under a white tree on the mountainside," The elf's frame sagged, "He was dead, suicide, a blade to the throat. The letter he held confirmed a fear I dared not think of."  
  
"He was Syphon's son," Aragorn's voice cracked.  
  
All Legolas could do was nod reluctantly.  
  
A wave of sadness tore through Aragorn's frame, and he buried his face in his hands, "Can there be any doubt? I thought I could prevent this somehow…I fear my mistakes will cause you Valinor, my dear friend…"  
  
Legolas' chest tightened, but he could not hate the king. He had killed Saruman to save Middle-Earth, and he had killed Syphon to save his wife and friends. Now, his bravery and valor had killed the unnamed third generation.  
  
He would not allow a curse from beyond the grave to keep him from the Land Across the Sea.  
  
"You will not meet death at the hands of a burden, my lord," Legolas said, assuring, "You have many years of a great and unforgettable rule before you."  
  
"I must wonder though," Aragorn looked at his clenched fist, "How much time do I have? Before the curse begins to manifest itself? Who will it strike first and whose life will be snuffed out be my hand?"  
  
"Twas not your hand that brought the death of the boy!" The elf motioned with his one movable hand, "Your bravery saved Middle-Earth from Saruman, and saved it again from the clutches from his son, Syphon! If my life is the price for the safety of Middle-Earth, so be it—!"  
  
Suddenly, Legolas doubled over in pain. Aragorn dove forward to catch his friend as he bucked in pain. A mouthful of blood splattered on the floor as he coughed and gagged.  
  
Wounds that had healed reopened, bleeding anew. Aragorn cried for the healers, and the guards ran to find them.  
  
He laid his friend onto his side, so that the blood that spurted from his mouth at each cough would not drown him. There was a short lull in his coughing, spasm attack, long enough for the Elven prince to whisper regretfully…  
  
"It has begun…" 


	3. Chapter Three

1 It has begun…  
  
Legolas' lasting words echoed in Aragorn's mind and he held his wife tightly in his arms.  
  
Arwen was burning up, yet she shivered as if cold. Blood stained the cloth that covered her coughing, and her once shiny black hair was dulled by sickness and time. Her hands were weak, and she could barely move…  
  
No healer knew what this ailment could possibly be. The Lady had long been in perfect health, yet now, there was only a matter of days before death would steal her from Aragorn's loving embrace.  
  
"Aragorn…" She whispered, hear head laying on his chest, "You should leave…in case you become sick like I…"  
  
"I cannot become sick of this ailment, so I will stay by your side…" Aragorn remembered the prophecy by Syphon before he died.  
  
Your wife shall be stricken with an incurable sickness, your elf friend will die by the arrow and sword, and the dwarf will fall, buried under his own beloved stone…  
  
Arwen rested against him, shivering, "I—I have never been sick before…I feel strange…"  
  
"Shh, rest, my love, for you need your strength," He sighed as he felt her relax against him, eyes closed as in sleep.  
  
Aragorn lay back against the headboard of the bed.  
  
Legolas was dying in his room, tended by two of his father Thranduil's finest healers. Yet even with Elven healing, the Elven prince still bled, his wounds never closing…  
  
No word had come of Gimli, for he had long since returned to the Glittering Caves. And the king of Gondor still awaited the arrival of Gandalf the White, the wizard that had so long been a close friend to him.  
  
He was about to fade into sleep when the door opened quickly.  
  
It was Gandalf, as if speaking his name was a summon across miles.  
  
"King Elessar," The old wizard bowed.  
  
"We have known each other for far too long. Between us, my name is Aragorn," The king gently and carefully slipped from under Arwen and left her to the skillful hands of her maidens.  
  
He followed Gandalf out to the garden.  
  
"Much evil had befallen you and yours, son of Arathorn," Gandalf's voice was grave, "Gimli had fallen, for a weak beam collapsed an entire cavern, despite the many sturdy columns that even now still stand, buried under rock and stone."  
  
"Sickness is stealing my wife, stone has stolen a great Dwarven lord!" Aragorn cried out in anguish, "And Legolas dies slowly of injuries given him by the second generation of Saruman's evil magic!"  
  
"You have told me of this prophecy," Gandalf shook his head, "Legolas may yet live, and that give hope. His wounds are of whips and braziers, not of arrows or swords. If we can keep him from these weapons, there would be hope enough to break the curse."  
  
"How could that break the curse?" Aragorn shook his head and sank onto a stone bench.  
  
"Stricken, but not dead! Buried, yet not killed!" Gandalf exploded angrily, "Syphon has you blinded by your own mind!"  
  
"I don't understand!" Aragorn exploded, his fists clenched.  
  
"The only person who is to actually die is the Elven prince!" Gandalf thundered, his voice rising mightily. The plants quivered and the fountains rippled at his voice, "Your wife shall be stricken with an incurable sickness, your elf friend will die by the arrow and sword, and the dwarf will fall, buried under his own beloved stone!"  
  
He still could not comprehend what his friend was telling him.  
  
"Arwen even now lives, and we can only hope that Gimli does as well," The old wizard grumbled, "If one of them dies, and Legolas lives, the curse is shattered! For if Legolas dies, the curse passes and ruin falls."  
  
The king's eyes widened.  
  
"You begin to see," He sighed and leaned against his staff, "You must bar him from returning to Mirkwood, for I fear that it may be then that death comes to claim him."  
  
Aragorn nodded. Perhaps they might live through this…  
  
The next few weeks were torture for those close to the king. Arwen could not move anymore, nor could she even open her eyes, and all those that knew of her, including her father, mourned her in this time of illness.  
  
Gimli was found, alive, under the many tons of rock and dirt that had buried him for nigh on three days. Aragorn had received word that he was weak and injured, but death would not come for some time.  
  
It was on the fourteenth day that all came to break…  
  
Aragorn and Legolas walked in the gardens. The elf could stand, and could only barely walk, for his injuries had broken more than his bones. His spirit seemed to be gone, as if the being Aragorn walked slowly besides was a shell.  
  
The king had been very reluctant to even let the elf out of the castle, but he had seen how house arrest had drained the elf of his life.  
  
"Legolas, would you like to sit?" He motioned to a bench.  
  
The Elven prince shook his head, "No, I dare not. I fear I may not be able to rise again."  
  
Aragorn knew the pain that his friend was going through just to get a glimpse of nature. He knew that his broken ankles had not healed, and that he was forced to wear braces of a kind in order to even stand.  
  
His right arm was bound closely to his side, for it was that wrist that had been crushed by Syphon's torturous ropes. He had also lost his length of hair, which still barely brushed the edge of his high cheekbones.  
  
They walked, and limped, past the many beautiful sights in the garden. The flowers were in full bloom, shedding their glorious rays of color cheerfully across the foliage trails.  
  
"This place reminds me of home," Legolas said quietly, coming to an unsteady stop near a tree, "How long have I wished to return to my home? But I cannot, for this curse takes my life and my soul in its icy grasp…"  
  
Aragorn returned to his side, "Legolas, it is for the best. If you were to die by the sword, and by arrow, all would come to ruin. You said yourself that it was a small price to pay."  
  
The elf sagged against the tree, "And to that I hold, my friend. I will not leave, even though my heart yearns for the real forest, with trees that speak of more than the passage of nobles under their branches. I shall remember the words long ago, by the trees in Mirkwood, speaking of the passage of time and animals beneath their outstretched limbs."  
  
Aragorn felt sorrow for his friend, but he could not feel what he felt. He had never heard the actual voices of the trees as the prince had, but he had long interpreted with wishes of the wind.  
  
"I am sorry, Legolas, my friend," He shook his head, "It was simply not to be."  
  
The elf nodded and stood shakily, "Let us keep moving. I dare not stay in one place for too long, else older wounds open far."  
  
"Older wounds?" Aragorn asked as they walked under the trees.  
  
"The curse does not only open wounds of time recent, but also those that have been healed and forgotten," He touched the junction of his neck and shoulder, where a white bandage was bound tightly, "Here is where a blade pierced my neck twenty years ago…"  
  
He quieted for a moment, "The wounds open on the day that they were given me."  
  
"Legolas!" Aragorn stopped short in horror, "These wounds do not heal! Have you ever been shot or stabbed by arrow or sword? Would these wounds be enough to kill?"  
  
The Elven prince's eyes widened to match his friend's, and then a coughing fit overtook him. Aragorn held him up while he coughed blood into a cloth given him for that very gruesome purpose.  
  
"I was…shot…many years ago…near the heart…" Legolas gasped between the wracking coughs, "The Battle of the…Five Armies…a sword…in the back…would not have lived…if my father had not…healed me…"  
  
This was evil boding…  
  
And Aragorn swore he heard the combined laughter of three, taunting him with his own inability to save his friends and wife…  
  
And, from the pinnacle of the white tower far above them, a black skinned woman with tears forever etched on her cheeks joined the three dead in laughing.  
  
Saruman's plan is working perfectly, She thought evilly, Now all I must do is wait for Gondor to fall, and I can bear the reborn Sauron to his rightful place as the ruler of Middle-Earth.  
  
"AAAHHHH!!!"  
  
The war cry startled her. She fell back and her foot met air. An old wizened hand snatched out and caught her black wrist as she began to fall.  
  
"The Weeping Woman," Gandalf the White held her tightly, "You come to survey the handiwork of your evil lord?"  
  
She laughed, even as she dangled far, far above the gates of the city, "Foolish wizard, you know nothing of the extent of the plan's hold. Even now, Sauron living in his vessel!"  
  
Gandalf glared at her as he realized what she said. Sauron was being reborn, this time into a mortal body, and he would take over the whole of Middle-Earth without the resistance of Gondor and the might of King Elessar to stop him…  
  
I could release her hand and kill both now, ending the threat…but Sauron may yet survive, even though his carrier dies. The Weeping Woman cries because her innocence and soul was stolen from her, The wizard shook his head, It was not her choice that she bear such a burden…  
  
And to take a child from her would kill a woman robbed of her life…I can take no life that Sauron has already destroyed. I wish to cause no more pain…  
  
The Weeping Woman saw the change in his face as she dangled, and his mercy enraged her, "They will all die, as you will, wizard. And I will laugh at your death. Yes, I will laugh."  
  
In the garden, Legolas was struggling to breathe. His eyes were wide as he motioned frantically towards his loose beige tunic. With quaking hands, he opened the front panel of the shirt…  
  
A patch of skin near his heart had begun to darken into a scar, then a scab, then a bruise…  
  
"Gandalf!" Aragorn cried, "Gandalf!"  
  
His cry did not go unheard. The old wizard pulled the ebony black woman onto the battlement.  
  
"You will be hunted, Weeping Woman," He called back as he ran, "Your mind will be tortured by my mercy, and you shall never rest for as long as you exist."  
  
She screamed curses after him as he disappeared.  
  
Only the curse prevented her from killing herself.  
  
Blood had begun to pour from the ancient arrow wound in Legolas' chest. Aragorn pressed hard against it, trying to staunch the blood flow, but the wound opened into the lung.  
  
More blood soaked the cloth Legolas held against his mouth as he coughed, spasms wracking his body…He was fading fast…  
  
"Gandalf!" Aragorn cried.  
  
As he pressed hard on the wound, there was a shadow, no, three glowing shadows that seemed to flit from tree to tree, accompanied by the giggling of a child. The king paid no attention to them until they reached his shoulder.  
  
One was a young man, about the age of seventeen. His eyes were bright and knowing, and his smile was kind…  
  
Beside him, with her hands on his shoulders, was an Elven woman, her silver eyes shining brightly. Her ancient armor seemed to remind Aragorn of that which was worn during the last battles against Sauron…  
  
The last was a man that Aragorn recognized easily. It was Syphon…  
  
"Aragorn, son of Arathorn," He spoke, his voice wavering, as if through water, "Let him die. Only then can the prophecy be fulfilled."  
  
"The prophecies…this curse…cannot be allowed to pass!" Aragorn kept his hands against Legolas' wound.  
  
"You do not understand," The woman said, "The powers of good have been battling this on a far different front than that which you know. The evil intended by Sauron had been negated."  
  
"So that is why the Weeping Woman wished me to kill her," Gandalf said, his voice quiet.  
  
"Gandalf, help me!" Aragorn pleaded.  
  
"Sauron is trapped within the body of the child," The old wizard continued softly, "The curse is being overcome by the force of good. If the curse breaks, as it will, he will be forever erased, with no other chance of return."  
  
The woman elf nodded, her movements blurred, again, as if through water, "If the body he inhabits dies, his spirit can roam once again…"  
  
"So you wish to let Legolas die?" Aragorn cried.  
  
"Yes," The seventeen-year-old boy reached down to cover the king's hands with his own shimmering ones, "So that I can rest…"  
  
Aragorn looked down at the elf that now suffered quietly, his eyes closed, awaiting what stood so near. With great hesitation, Aragorn allowed the young man to pull his hands away from the Elven prince's wound.  
  
A few more breaths…  
  
…And the one named in the prophecy died. 


	4. Chapter Four

1 A bright flash of light blinded them all…  
  
"Ah, Legolas, you too feel the need for fresh air," Gimli, dressed in all his party finery, jerked a thumb back at the party inside the castle.  
  
"I am not one to spend time at parties," Legolas straightened his moss green dress tunic.  
  
Suddenly, there was a rustling in the bushes. The elf spun, his boot dagger in his hand in an instant. A late-night squirrel dodged out of the foliage, chattered around the elf's feet, then ran past the dwarf and into the darkness.  
  
Gimli laughed, "You are jumpy tonight, Master Elf!"  
  
With a reassuring pat on the back, Gimli returned to the party. Legolas chuckled to himself and replaced his dagger. He felt as if someone was watching him, but he shook off the feeling and hesitantly returned to the party.  
  
High above them, on the pinnacle of the white tower, three shimmering figures stood, a young man, an Elven woman, and a wizard's creation. They all exchanged smiling glances.  
  
The young boy took his father's hand they walked down the battlement, disappearing into thin air and oblivion. Their souls were at rest…  
  
The Elven woman watched for a little longer. She was at rest, but she did not feel as if everything was finished…  
  
"It is finished," Gandalf said quietly, "You are the Weeping Woman no longer, Mitharwen."  
  
"I know, Gandalf, but I feel as if something is missing."  
  
"There is someone waiting for you, beyond death, someone who loved you even after your soul was stolen from you," The wise wizard moved to the side, revealing another ghost.  
  
This one was a Elven warrior…the same that the Weeping Woman had killed as her first victim.  
  
Gandalf watched in contentment as the last pair faded into eternity. Then, he looked up to the stars and smiled.  
  
"Thank you," He said quietly.  
  
And the sky waved a shooting star. 


End file.
